


How Dursleys Are Made

by katrinawritesstuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinawritesstuff/pseuds/katrinawritesstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/U. The back-story of how Vernon Dursley became the dull, parochial, unimaginative Tory he is in the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Dursleys Are Made

_Synopsis: Add intractable stubbornness. Subtract imagination. Multiply by a fondness for cliché, as well as mindless obedience to authority. Add a dash of parochialism, then a pinch or several of unthinking admiration for King and Country. A dash of self-importance here, a few cupfuls of disdain for foreigners and distaste for the lower orders there, and you’re all set. Beat well until blandly pleasant consistency is achieved._

*

_Smeltings School for Boys, 1959_  
_Anytown, England_

 

Once upon a time, in the middle of the twentieth century, in the country that invented the rule of Law and global imperialism, young Vernon Dursley sat at his small wooden school desk by the window and stared out at the clouds. Their funny shapes reminded him of the circus he’d been to with his parents. They’d seen elephants and tigers and regal white horses with impeccable manes and tails. The trailing wisps of cloud reminded him of the horses, of their braided hair and clever prancing. The steed in the sky looked like its real-life counterparts, only frozen mid-gallop. If Vernon just closed his eyes and blocked out the sound of his whispering classmates and droning teacher, he could almost hear it talking to him: 

“’Ello, young chap!” the cheeky horse whinnied. It grinned at Vernon as it jerked its head to indicate its saddle. “Fancy an adventure? Well, climb aboard!”

In his imagination the young Vernon Dursley hopped astride the noble steed, wearing a suit of armour and carrying a long jousting sword for vanquishing any immortal foes. A gallant grin, a flick of the reins, a loud “Tally ho!” and they were off. 

“What kind of heroic quest are we going on today, Sir Gallophad?” Vernon asked the horse as it tore across the clouds, leaving a trail of stardust and more than a few birds seeing stars in its wake. 

“Don’t be daft, lad,” it neighed in reply. “Gotta rescue the princess, don’t we?”

“Princess?”

“Well, unless you want her to be dragon dinner. Most inadvisable, if you ask me; dragons are often really cranky after they’ve had princess. Gives ’em terrible flatulence and indigestion, see, and they’re always right prats to the cloud-villagers after. Aah! There it is! The dragon’s lair!”

They were approaching a cluster of ominous-looking thunderclouds in the shape of a dark castle. The spires ejected jagged bolts of lightning in a multitude of colours. It reminded Vernon of a fireworks display, and would have been pretty were it not so lethal. A stray bolt hit a giant oak and left a smouldering pile of kindling in its wake. 

And now one was coming their way. 

Sir Gallophad reared up on his hind legs and let out a loud whinny as the lightning bolt struck the ground where his hoof had been. A fiery hole appeared in the cloudy earth in front of them, a perfect brown circle that was singed black at the edges and around the hole’s centre like an overcooked bagel. Coloured bolts rained down around them in all directions, turning the once idyllic landscape into a minefield. 

“We have to get out of here, Sir Gallophad!” the brave knight Vernon exclaimed. “If we stay in one spot we’ll be charred like cutlets!”

The noble steed heeded his master’s call, and in an instant they were off, dodging this way and that as the deadly lightning whizzed past them. The lightning was very powerful indeed, immediately obliterating whatever it came into contact with. Trees were reduced to piles of splinters. Large boulders became thousands of tiny pebbles. One unfortunate cloud villager had chosen today of all days to do a spot of fishing in the stream, and had the misfortune of being struck right in the stomach while he was napping beneath a shady beech tree. All that remained of him was an ugly red smear that reached halfway up the trunk. The fish he’d caught flopped about helplessly on the end of its line, its silver scales glistening like jewels on the crimson pillow of the man’s no longer beating heart. 

“You’re doing a wonderful job, Sir Gallophad!” the young knight Vernon said encouragingly. “Come on, we’re nearly there. If the dragon’s evil bolts can make mince-meat out of a grown man, just imagine what they could do to a small, helpless princess!”

“Oh, I _know_ ,” his equine companion groaned. “If the cloud folk thought they had it tough the morning after Burrito Night in Mountain Troll Land, imagine what’s gonna ’appen after Draggy McDrop-’Is-Guts ’ere gets ’is claws on a real live princess. ’Ell fart the seventh circle of Ell quicker ’an you can say ‘pass the curry.’”

They were closing in on the castle now. Vernon stared at it through the bars of his helmet in amazement. It was like the medieval castles he’d seen pictures of in _A History of British Architecture_ , only far more sinister. It was black and jagged, the windows aglow with an eerie red light—a very dark red, the same colour as the blood of trespassers who’d foolishly ventured within its hungry walls. And its sharpness—even the turrets were pointed, triangular rather than square, sloping down in the centre and up at the sides as if the castle itself was flashing them a toothy, terrifying grin. 

“We’ve got this, Gallophad,” the young knight Dursley proclaimed, trying to muster up the confidence that had failed to arise naturally. He needed to be brave enough for the both of them; beneath him, he could feel his noble steed’s legs gradually turning to jelly. 

“Oh brave Sir Vernon, I d-don’t fink I can go on.”

“Well you’ll just have to, Gallophad. You can’t stop now. We’re so close!”

“B-but, if I keep running, good Sir, we’ll both be eaten alive! _Look!”_

Vernon raised his head skyward. Coiled protectively across three spires was the largest dragon the young Dursley had ever laid eyes on. It had the long, looping body and nasal whiskers of an Asiatic dragon, but the colouring of a European one—mossy green back scales and a yellow underbelly. 

“Oh god, that’s a hybrid, that is,” yelped the horse in a panicked voice. “They’re the most powerful kind—characteristics of both breeds. They also have the strength, speed and fire-breathing abilities of _two_ dragons.”

A terrified scream pierced the air. Both horse and rider looked up just in time to see Katie Culverwell—beautiful, sweet Princess Katie, with her auburn pigtails fastened by two shiny ribbons that matched the deep blue of her cornflower eyes—swiftly seized by the ankles and hoisted upside-down into the air, screaming for her life as the dragon lowered her towards his gaping jaws. 

“NO!” Vernon yelled. The valiant young knight knew he had to act, and quickly. This would require some magic. Vernon cleared his throat and bellowed the following incantation: “Eye of eagle and wing of sparrow, bring to me now a quiver full of arrows!” 

And in the blink of an eye, in place of his jousting sword, Sir Vernon Dursley was endowed with a harp-sized bow and a cylindrical leather satchel full of sharp, deadly arrows. 

But these were no ordinary arrows. Impaled on their pointed tips were the most vile, most repellent and most lethal poison known to child or dragon: brussel sprouts. Purple cabbage. Steamed broccoli. 

_Vegetables._

Glaring at the dragon hatefully, Vernon yelled, “Suck on _sprouts,_ you overgrown monitor lizard!” He then retrieved an arrow from his satchel, drew it back in his bow, and fired it straight at the dragon’s ugly mouth. 

It was a hole in one. The arrow bearing the awful snot-glob of nasty, sprouty poison shot right down the scaly beast’s throat. The dragon froze. Its pupils contracted to the size of watermelon seeds, and it emitted a loud, smoky cough. It clawed at its throat frantically, violently dry-retching as it attempted to dislodge the putrid plant that had become stuck in its greedy gullet. 

Sir Gallophad bolted ahead at full speed. “Now’s your chance, lad!” his faithful companion cried. “Hit ’im with as many of those vile vegies as you can! Quick, while he’s still choking!” 

The dragon raked one claw against his throat, the other arm swinging about like an out-of-control crane as he struggled to maintain his balance. Poor Princess Katie dipped up and down in a series of repetitive jerks like a human salt-shaker. The nauseous maiden cried fearfully, “Ohhh, b-brave Sir Vernon, p-please help me!” 

Vernon aimed a broccoli-arrow at the dragon’s sputtering mouth and fired. Again the poison plant hit its target—Vernon’s heart soared!—but this time it did not have the desired effect. Instead of increasing the rapacious reptile’s choking fit, the arrival of the second arrow had the unintended consequence of pushing the stuck sprout cleanly down his throat. The blockage now removed, the dragon’s yellow eyes gleamed with evil triumph as it reared up on its back legs and let out an angry, ear-splitting roar. 

Vernon cursed loudly. Sir Gallophad emitted an anguished whinny. But the brave young knight was undeterred; he promptly snatched a handful of arrows from his quiver and let them fly all at once, the sky becoming a child’s nightmare—bombardment by salad. Whole heads of broccoli and cauliflower and cabbage streaked through the air, missiles most foul. Vernon feared for the princess’s life, and consequently his aim wasn’t as steady as usual. The vegetable-arrows, so large to a human, ricocheted ineffectually off the armour of scales like parsley sprigs on toothpicks. 

But the worst was yet to come. 

The dragon threw its head back and made a vile throat-clearing noise, like it was hacking up a lurgy. It then expelled an enormous pale yellow ball of goo—the exact shade and consistency of a large bowl of custard—in their direction. 

Sir Gallophad came to an abrupt halt. The goo-ball shot towards them like a comet, slamming into the ground in front of them with the same forceful impact as the lightning bolts moments earlier. But where the bolts had gone straight through the cloudy earth, the goo-ball retained its original form and simply sat there in front of them like a sick, smouldering dessert. 

“Urrrgh, _gross!”_ Sir Vernon exclaimed. “I thought dragons were supposed to breathe _fire,_ not hack up giant bogeys.”

“Well, it’s certainly not fire.” Sir Gallophad genuflected for a closer look. His nostrils flared wide as he sniffed. “And it’s not bogeys, either.” His eyes suddenly saucered with comprehension. “Wait a second—a layer of custard, a layer of jam, a layer of sponge—Sir Vernon, this ain’t no lurgy. It’s trifle.”

Vernon was dumbfounded. “Trifle?” 

“Yesiree! Good old-fashioned delicious trifle. Imagine, a trifle-breathing dragon.” The horse chuckled. “Must be ’is English side.”

But now was not the time for jokes; the lump of trifle began to bubble and spit like a mound of hot molten lava. Then a jet-stream of custard shot into the air like a geyser, but it wasn’t the climb of the killer custard that worried horse and rider so much as its descent; when the mess came plummeting back down the pair knew they’d be liquefied in an instant if they didn’t move post-haste.

“I fink,” said Sir Gallophad, his eyes following the dessert’s trajectory, “that we’d best high-tail it out of ’ere quick as we can, whadda you reckon?” 

The horse didn’t wait for a reply. It took a flying leap over the pulsating mound of trifle and shot forward at a brisk clip, dodging the hail of custard and jam and sponge that flew at them from all corners.

They were so close now! Vernon could practically feel the steel arrowhead pierce the dragon’ heart, could practically feel the dainty weight of Princess Katie in his strong arms. She would look at him with those beautiful blue cornflower eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. “Oh, _Vernon,”_ she’d sigh. 

“Katie,” he’d whisper affectionately. 

“Vernon.” 

“Katie.”

“Vernon? Vernon? Vernon!” 

Vernon sat bolt upright in his chair, frowning. Katie’s voice had changed. It was now deeper. And grown-up. And cranky. 

_“Vernon Dursley!”_

The cloud landscape reverted back to a classroom. The purple rocks morphed back into desks. The mounds of trifle shrunk and darkened to become the small jars of ink the students kept on the edge of their desks. And the dragon was none other than the irate Mrs Evelyn Striker, the children’s Grade One teacher, who looked as though she’d had a few cupfuls of vinegar-flavoured trifle herself. 

“How many times have I warned you about daydreaming in class, Mr Dursley? _How many times!?”_

Poor Vernon shrank down into his seat timidly. He knew better than to answer; it was less a question than a reprimand anyway. Mrs Striker was a cruel old thing whose thin, brittle body matched her parsimonious personality. She had shrewd unfeeling eyes and a hardness to her that manifested itself physically, her features looking like they’d been overcooked in a kiln of disapproval. The barcode lines on that furious forehead were particularly deep. Vernon looked at them and thought that if he were ever in need of something to scrub his clothes on, Mrs Striker’s brow ridges would make an excellent washboard. 

The boy meekly attempted to explain himself. “I-I was looking out the w-window, Ma’am—the c-clouds, they l-looked like a-animals—there was a dragon, and a horse—Sir Gallophad—I had to save the p-princess—”

“What nonsense! There are no _animals_ in the clouds—I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous! Clouds are simply a visible collection of water or ice particles suspended in the air at very high altitudes. Nothing more and nothing less. Honestly, Mr Dursley, it’s small wonder your ears seem to be full of cotton wool, given the frequency with which you have your head in the clouds…”

A few of his classmates snickered cruelly. Katie Culverwell giggled (Smeltings was having a rare week-long rendezvous with its sister-school, Presbyterian Ladies’ College). At six years of age, Vernon didn’t have much use for icky girls, but he did have a small crush on Katie, who was so cool and tomboyish and funny that she wasn’t a girl at all really, at least not by his reckoning). 

“…imagination is a distraction from memorisation, and you’d do well to remember that if you don’t wish to end up in the gutter one day…” Mrs Striker was still berating him. Vernon found it took all the mental effort he possessed not to lapse back into his heroic fantasy, not to tune out his harping teacher and snickering peers and return to a world where he was praised and heralded rather than shamed and scolded. 

“Ooh, look—ickle Verny’s gonna _cry,”_ sneered Blaine Manser. Blaine was a tall, reedy boy with oil-spill black hair and the kind of smile that was more like a smirk—the kind that told you he was enjoying a private joke that he had absolutely no intention of sharing with you. Blaine always volunteered to be the class ink monitor, not because he was the teacher’s pet—he wasn’t—but because it gave him the delightful opportunity to ruin the work of the students who were. On one occasion Blaine had even filled the top-up glass with coffee and poured some down the back of Vernon’s white PE shorts. “Everyone, look! Verny’s pooed his pants!” he’d announced in front of the whole class, to his mischievous glee and to Vernon’s utter horror. 

Blaine was a mean, ugly old bully. Vernon especially hated his tormentor’s eyes; narrow slits that searched him unnervingly for any signs of weakness, with malign green irises that reminded Vernon of mouldy bread and poisonous gases.

Vernon managed to stiffen his quivering lower lip. He would _not_ give that ogre Blaine the satisfaction of seeing him cry, he would not. It was difficult—he was a sensitive little boy who wept easily, often even less for himself than for the unfortunate peoples and creatures of the world who had been knocked about by fate’s cruel hand. But what he lacked in strength, he made up for in whimsy. It took no effort at all to return to his reverie and resume his conversation with the beautiful, brilliant Princess Katie…

No dragon this time. Just he and Katie, running about in a playground together, laughing and having fun. They slid down a slippery-dip, hung upside-down from the monkey-bars and then took turns pushing each other on the swing-set.

“Higher, Vernon! Push me higher!”

“Sure you can handle it, Katie?”

“’Course I’m sure! Higher, higher!”

“Okay Katie, you asked for it!”

“Weeee! This is so fun, Vernon! You’re a really good pusher! You’re so strong…”

“VERNON DURSLEY!”

Vernon blinked in astonishment, a scarlet shame rapidly spreading across his face. He could tell right away that the angry voice chastising him wasn’t a part of his daydream. The scowling face of Mrs Striker now loomed large and horrible in front of him, more terrifying than any dragon. 

“That does it!” she snapped crossly. She leaned in close with her hands on her hips, showering him with spittle as she spoke. “If I can’t make you pull your foolish head out of the clouds, Mr Dursley, perhaps the principal can! You’re to report to the headmaster’s office immediately. He’ll give you six of the best, and you’d do well not to cry—unless you want six more. Now, get out of my sight! GO!”

It was humiliating. Mrs Striker frog-marched Vernon to the door in front of the entire class, including Katie, who Vernon noticed was now eyeing him not with mirth but with sympathy. Then Mrs Striker ordered little Timothy Bromilow—a mouse of a boy who was just as susceptible to bullying as Vernon—to escort him to the headmaster’s office. 

“ ‘Six of the best’,” Vernon mused curiously. “Six of the best what? I wonder what he could possibly be giving me.” Timothy had gone pale and started trembling, but Vernon was too caught up in his fanciful musings to notice. 

Poor, sweet Vernon. So innocent and naïve. He still believed in so many things: the essential benevolence of the world. The intrinsic kindness of people. That a child’s vast imagination could be appreciated by adults who’d never had an ounce of it themselves. 

The painful whacks across the bare backside with the wooden cane were his first indication that things were otherwise. Vernon focused his attention on the filing cabinet in the corner of the office, attempting to borrow some of its solidity as the headmaster delivered blow after blow to his poor, abused buttocks. He told himself he should be grateful that his teacher and principal cared enough about his education that they would punish him so severely. He told himself over and over until his vision grew blurry with unspilled tears, and all that remained of the filing cabinet was a dull metallic smudge. Enlightenment-by-corporal-punishment had a grey hue. 

 

* 

_1964_

When Vernon was eleven years old, his father Reginald decided it was time to make a man out of his son. Reginald Dursley was an essentially pragmatic man, a staunch advocate of anything time-honoured and traditional: Money, Monarchy, the Military. He always paid his taxes (though frequently complained that they were too high), hunted for sport (foxes, ducks and pheasants, mostly) and approved of plain, no-frills hobbies such as the collecting of stamps and old coins (the Dursleys weren’t quite wealthy enough to collect antiques—that was for the leisure class). The senior Dursley was a handyman by trade, and owned a warehouse called Dursley’s Domestics and Gardens that sold the usual array of household and gardening products—hoses, hammers, drills, terracotta pots, lawnmowers and a number of plants in the adjacent greenhouse. In other words, the stuff of daily life—predictable, stable, single-function items that always did as they were told, nothing more and nothing less. 

In other words: father and son couldn’t have been further apart had Vernon been born on Jupiter. 

Reginald Dursley often did think his second son’s brain resided on the great gas giant, or perhaps on some feebler, further-out planet that had yet to be discovered. How unlike Reginald he was, with his absurd flights of childish fantasy and constant delusional daydreaming. And how unlike his older brother, Simon, who eschewed art for sport, who was boisterous and popular, who was captain of the school football team and a highly skilled speaker whose superb oratory had seen him elected class president. Now _there_ was a young lad who was going places! He could be a great statesman some day, the next Winston Churchill. By contrast, Vernon’s hobbies included pottery and gardening, singing to the rosebushes and pretending he could talk to animals. If he didn’t end up working in his father’s warehouse, Reginald was sure he’d end up either a poof or a loony. 

And so, to toughen him up a bit, Vernon’s father took his sensitive second-born on a weekend pheasant hunt. 

Vernon, for his part, tried to play the role of the little tough-guy hunter. He was quite believable in the role, too—after all, playing pretend was something at which the young Dursley was quite adept—but it took a fair bit of energy to maintain such an exuberant gee-whiz-Dad curiosity, especially as his father’s explanations made it perfectly clear that the purpose of their expedition would be the taking of a life. Poor Vernon found it hard to stomach the cuts of veal or lamb on his plate at the best of times. To actually watch his father murder a helpless creature before his very eyes—Vernon wasn’t sure how he’d cope. 

In fact, whenever it looked as though one of the birds was within shooting range, Vernon would loudly pester his father with questions about gun use and capabilities.

“Do shot-guns have a safety catch, Dad?”

“Why do you keep cocking the barrels? Why can’t shot-guns keep firing all the time like machine guns?”

“Do they make child-sized guns for kids like me, or are all guns big like yours?”

After three spoiled attempts to get the game, a puce-faced Reginald Dursley let his fury free.

“Shut your trap, useless boy! I’ve told you a thousand bloody times, but as your brain is obviously too small to retain a few very brief, very simple facts, here they are again, from the top: the safety catch is right here, and hasn’t moved since you asked me the last four bloody times. Shot-guns have to be re-loaded manually because that’s how they’re built; there’s a reason the other kind are called automatic, stupid. And lastly, yes, there are, but not here because this isn’t the United States. Now—any more questions? Better ask now so you don’t ruin the remainder of the afternoon, you  
pathetic, simple-minded, supremely irritating little half-wit.” 

Vernon looked at his father with large liquid eyes, his lower lip aquiver. 

Reginald stooped down until he was eye-level with his son. His lips curled into a nasty smile. 

“Know what, lad?” he asked, his evil grin widening. “For the next one, you should pull the trigger. That was you can say you caught it all by yourself! Won’t that be fun?”

Vernon forced a queasy smile. The endlessly-imaginative young boy couldn’t think of even one single thing that could be any _less_ fun, and that included writing lines (“I must not make up outlandish stories. I must not make up outlandish stories”) and receiving a beating from resident bully Blaine.

And so off Reginald confidently strode, his nervous son dutifully trailing after. Or so he thought—in fact, Vernon had deliberately slipped away into the woods. He knew the sight of a lifeless fowl would turn his stomach and so, not wishing to disappoint his father, ‘accidentally’ lost himself. He could hear his father cheerfully singing ’99 Bottles of Beer’ off in the distance and planned to reunite with him after their evening meal had already been caught, so he didn’t have to actually witness bullet piercing flesh. With any luck they might even go home empty-handed. 

Vernon wandered merrily off the dirt path, paddling his arms through the air and humming ‘Old McDonald had a Farm’ to himself as he walked. The earth grew gradually damper beneath his feet. Vernon realised he was approaching a small stream. There were a number of large jagged rocks on both sides of the brook. Still humming happily, Vernon leapt from bank to bank, being sure to avoid the stones in the water (too smooth and slippery). The stream snaked along in a series of S-bends, and Vernon imagined himself as one of the small silver fish that seemed inseparable from the clear water around them, glistening like jewels in a translucent veil. 

After a bit of hopping about, Vernon’s feet had begun to grow blistered and sore. And so he sat on a rock by the stream’s edge, unlaced his hunting boots and let his aching, suppurating toes be soothed by the water’s coolness. Vernon sighed deeply and closed his eyes, blissfully drinking in the sounds and smells of the surrounding woodland. 

Suddenly, a terrified male voice—well, at least it _sounded_ like a male voice—gave a loud, frightened yell. 

“Aaaaah! C’or blimey, kid, please don’t eat me! I have a wife and three chicks! They’ll die without me! Please, I beg of you—show some mercy!”

Vernon blinked in astonishment. Over on the opposite bank stood a hefty and rather dim-witted looking pheasant, quivering so hard even its long tail-feathers trembled. And it had spoken to him. In _English._

Vernon leapt up from the rock, his own legs wobbling like crazy. He stared at the bird with saucer-eyed incredulity, swallowing nervously. “Did you…did you just _talk?”_

The pheasant gave a derisive snort. “We birds _squawk,_ not talk. Talkin’ is for humans, innit? We got our own language, thanks very much.” Suddenly remembering its life was in danger, the pheasant added apprehensively, “’Course, I’ll talk any language you want if it means I get to leave ’ere un’armed. ’Ell, I’ll sing like a nightingale if it means I get to”—the bird edged back warily—“keep my life.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Vernon assured the bird, still not quite believing what he was hearing. Vernon had spoken to many animals before, but that had been different—those times he’d been playing pretend. During the odd time when the animal had appeared to speak back, it had been in a murmur so faint and indistinct Vernon assumed he had simply imagined it. But this was the first time an animal had addressed him, and done so in a manner so clear and direct. If this was another fantastical figment, it certainly was a realistic one. 

At Vernon’s assurance, the pheasant seemed to visibly relax. “Oh, good,” it replied pleasantly. “I don’ like folks who wan’ to ’urt me.” Vernon was surprised at how readily the bird took him at his word (birds of most species are quite credulous, pheasants especially so). 

Vernon was just about to ask his feathered friend how it was that they could understand each other, when just then the pair heard the sound of dead leaves being crunched underfoot, and a familiar male voice bellowed: “VER-NON! I’ll have your bloody hide, boy! Wandering off, getting yourself lost…”

Vernon turned to the pheasant, his eyes wide with alarm. “My father’s coming!” he whispered urgently. “Quick, you have to hide!”

The pheasant cocked its head and blinked at him in confusion. “Wot?” 

“Dad’s approaching, and he’ll be here soon. He’ll kill you if you don’t leave!”

“Wot?”

Vernon sighed in frustration. His father had been right; pheasants were exceptionally stupid. 

Unbeknown to the young Dursley, the bird hadn’t actually been speaking to him in English. _He_ had been speaking to _it_ in its native Avian tongue, which was why they had been able to understand each other. But when he heard his father coming Vernon panicked, and had without knowing it switched back to English. And now boy and bird stood helplessly on opposite sides of the bank, talking and squawking and growing increasingly agitated in their mutual incomprehension. 

“Get out of here! Go on, beat it!” Vernon made a desperate shooing gesture with his hands. “My father will arrive any minute, and when he does he’ll…he’ll…”

_“There_ you are, boy!”

Vernon’s heart sank to his feet. His Dad came tromping through the clearing, teeth clenched in a barely repressed rage. Vernon shuddered when he thought of the beating he’d receive when they got home. Reginald Dursley was just about to give his son an almighty blast when his eyes landed on the oblivious pheasant. It had its back to him and was completely still. Reginald grinned triumphantly and raised his gun.

“Out of the way, boy. This will be a clean, easy shot.” 

Vernon hesitated. He didn’t want to defy his father. The beating he would receive for getting lost was severe enough already, and anyway, Vernon Dursley was an obedient child at heart. He had always disapproved of classmates who chatted back to teachers or who were blatantly rude to authority figures. Vernon Dursley never aspired to be pegged as a trouble-maker, a subversive; he wanted above all else for adults to tell him he was good. 

Vernon dutifully stepped aside, heart hammering. He stared at the stupid bird pityingly. It might not have been all that clever, but then Vernon was often told that he wasn’t too bright, either. Why was the worth of a creature determined by its intellect, anyway? Bullies like Blaine and his teacher might have IQs far higher than his, but if qualities like care and compassion were measured numerically then the two tyrants would struggle to attain his shoe size. In Vernon’s reckoning, a brilliant mind was nothing if the heart it shared a body with was a dull, self-centred organ whose primary concern was itself. 

His father held the gun steady as he peered through the crosshairs. Then, without Vernon being entirely conscious of what he was doing, he focused the full force of his will on the bird and murmured the following words under his breath: “Petrificus totalis.”

Reginald pulled the trigger and fired. 

The bullet hit its target, all right, but what exploded from the pheasant’s back wasn’t a blizzard of blood and feathers but rather chunks of rock and pebbles. This was because the bird was no longer a bird at all but a large black stone, marble-smooth and as impervious to pain as the rocks in the stream before them. 

Neither father nor son could quite believe his eyes. 

“Wh-what?” Reginald sputtered, setting the gun down on a rock and rubbing his eyes with his fists. He dashed over to the stone, blinking repeatedly as if at any second he’d see a carcass, and the transformation he’d witnessed seconds earlier was merely an illusion of light and shadow. “How…how the devil…I could’ve sworn that was a bird, not a stone…”

Vernon was frozen in place, an astonished little statue. He was just as perplexed as his father. 

What were those words he uttered? ‘Petrifius totalus’—no, that wasn’t it— _petrificus totalis,_ yes! But what on earth did _that_ mean? Vernon had never heard the phrase before in his life. He’d seemingly just plucked it out of the ether. And the talking bird—what was up with _that?_ Vernon may have had an extremely expansive imagination, but even he knew animals didn’t _really_ talk…did they? And if the bird really _had_ spoken, why hadn’t his father heard anything? After all, it was still idiotically squawking ‘wot? Wot?’ when his Dad arrived on the scene. Surely his father would have found that most unusual, and may have even tried to smack the pheasant into behaving more, well, pheasant-like. Vernon’s father hated unusual things. 

But those words…petrificus totalis…they were what had caused the bird to change. Vernon was sure of it. And he knew he hadn’t been imagining _that_ , because his Dad had seen it, too. 

“All right, lad, we’re done,” Reginald growled, turning to his son with an irate look. 

Vernon blinked. “But Dad! You saw—”

“I _thought_ I saw a pheasant, but turned out it was just a stone. Yes, a stone. Have to lay off the booze, yes, and these old eyes aren’t what they used to be. That’s it, that’s all it is—eyesight and booze, yes…”

Vernon sensed an edge of hysteria in his father’s voice. He wanted to do for his Dad what no-one had ever done for him—to give him comfort. To tell him he wasn’t crazy. That what he thought he’d hallucinated had happened before his eyes, too. “Dad, it’s okay. Really. I saw—”

“You saw a stone,” Reginald Dursley snapped. “Just as I did. Now hurry up, boy. Don’t want to keep your mother waiting now, do we? Get that scrawny bum of yours into gear now, chop-chop!” Glowering at his disbelieving, dejected son, Reginald stalked off out of the clearing without another word. 

Vernon watched his father’s retreating back. He was so upset he wasn’t even surprised when he glanced down and noticed the stone had changed back into a pheasant. It now sported a round clean-edged gunshot wound in the centre of its back. A bauble of blood trickled down like a lone, disappointed tear. 

 

* 

When Vernon was younger, in Grade One or even pre-primary, his favourite book was a very lusciously illustrated picture book called _Topsy-turvy Land_. In this magical story-land everything was back-to-front and upside-down. For instance, the youngest individuals possessed the most authority, so the lawyers and surgeons and High Court judges were still wearing pyjamas with sewn-in feet, and all the politicians—including the Prime Minister—needed a good over-the-shoulder burp and a brief nap during every Question Time. As for the adults, well, they simply attended grade school and did their best to keep on the good side of their child superiors—an easy enough feat, provided they kept their imaginations sharp through frequent daydreaming and ate up every last crumb of their dinners (mint slice and crisps, usually). 

And that wasn’t all that was strange about Topsy-turvy Land. In this most odd world, dogs lived in constant fear of much larger, ferocious felines. But mice were worst of all; they were enormous, and feared no creature (except elephants). And this inversion of the normal order in both the human kingdom and the animal one also permeated daily life: everyone knew, for instance, that frequent travel and trips to amusement parks were good for the soul. The benefits were scientifically proven—rollercoaster riders lived longer than ferris wheel and merry-go-round ones, and all riders outlived people who rarely visited amusement parks at all. Travellers were fitter, broader-minded and more empathetic than non-travellers, and as a result the cleverer citizens of Topsy-turvy Land took full advantage of their yearly government-subsidised travel benefits. Dentists were still permitted to practice their tooth-torture, but Orthodontists were not. After all, no-one really _needs_ braces, and anyone who would pass judgement on you for your smile doesn’t deserve to see it in the first place. 

Of course, _Topsy-turvy Land_ was just the kind of book that a shy, creative boy with an active fantasy life and a tendency towards whimsy would adore. Vernon found it at a second-hand bookstore, and pestered his mother to buy it with such unflagging zeal that she eventually acquiesced. He made her read it to him over and over again, day after day, night after night. He made her read it so many times that she eventually grew sick to the back teeth of it and refused to do so ever again. So Vernon read it to himself. Night after night. Every evening, without fail. He fell asleep with it clutched lovingly against his chest, nuzzling its yellowed pages and cracked spine the way other children do their knitted blankets or plush animals. 

Needless to say, Vernon’s parents were somewhat less enthusiastic about _Topsy-turvy Land._

“Utter nonsense,” Reginald Dursley grumbled to his wife one evening when the family were seated around the dinner table. “Sheer, unadulterated nonsense: mice chasing cats, MPs as giant babies. And yearly government-subsidised holidays, good Lord! The author of this book must want to raise a generation of benefits scroungers. Really, Margaret, why do you buy such rubbish?” 

“Pestering, dear,” came the curt reply from over by the stove. The Dursley matriarch carried a plate of skinless chicken, peas and mash potatoes with her and sat down in the chair opposite her husband, frowning disapprovingly at her young son as she spoke. “Vernon was so very trying that afternoon. I thought if I bought him what he wanted he’d leave me to my detective novels in peace.” She heaved a melodramatic sigh and flashed Vernon a terse smile. “Clearly, I was rather mistaken, wasn’t I?”

“You spoil the boy, Margaret. But if you’re going to do so in the future, best do it with toffees and sweets instead, hm? The boy could use a bit of fattening up.” Reginald looked up with a sneer at his frail, bird-like son. “The only books he needs concern the two Hs: History and Hardware. One needs to know how things work and how the world works. Anything beyond that is pointless, a frivolous extravagance. Especially”—his nose crinkled as he eyed _Topsy-turvy Land_ , which Vernon had brought with him to the table— _“that.”_

Vernon was a well-behaved child who almost never argued with grown-ups, but even he felt the need to defend his book against such an unprovoked and unfair attack. “It’s not pointless,” he murmured sullenly, without taking his eyes off his plate. “It’s fun, and exciting. It helps my imagination.”

“Your imagination is one thing that really doesn’t need any helping, lad,” the senior Dursley replied with a harsh bark of a laugh.

“It has really pretty artwork,” Vernon mumbled lamely.

His mother gave him a tense smile. “Art can be nice, love,” she said, nodding her head to the fridge where Vernon’s painting of a rocket-ship hung askew by a pair of magnets. It would be gone by the end of the week, of course. All of Vernon’s paintings had a brief display-life; seven days and then in the bin, it simply wasn’t economical to have useless items of sentimentality cluttering up the place. “It can be very nice indeed. But it doesn’t pay the bills.”

Through the blandly pleasant dinner conversation and clinking cutlery, Vernon bit his lower lip and tried hard not to cry. 

After a time, Reginald stifled a belch and set down his silverware. “Off to watch the news,” he muttered, excusing himself. When her husband had left the table, Margaret transferred her attention to her children.

“Well. How was everyone’s day at school, then?” she asked brightly. There was a note of maternal warmth in her voice that made a rare appearance, usually when she was talking to Simon. Vernon glanced up hopefully only to see that his mother was, indeed, addressing his older brother.

Simon flashed her his broad, lovable-rogue smile. “Football practice was fun,” the ten-year-old proclaimed. “The team we’re playing this weekend are rumoured to be weak, really weak. Victory’s practically in the bag. Ants could beat that useless mob.”

“Now sweetie, I know you’re so much faster and stronger and cleverer than those other boys”—Mrs Dursley gave her older son a sappy Mum-smile that made Vernon want to gag—“but you must remember to be a good _winner_ as well.” 

“May I be excused?” Vernon was feeling envious and fragile. He didn’t feel like eating the rest of his dinner. He didn’t even feel like smugly pointing out to his brother that, actually, ants are quite strong and can lift many times their own body weight. He just felt like retiring early to bed where he could curl up with his cherished book in peace. 

“Yes yes, off you go, love,” Margaret replied airily, not taking her adoring gaze off her older son, who was currently regaling her with a story of how he’d scored  
the winning goal after booting the ball straight at the goalkeeper’s head. 

Vernon climbed the stairs to his bedroom, lay down on his tummy and smiled as he opened Topsy-turvy Land. His parents may not have seen what was so special about the story, but he figured that was because they simply had more important, adult-business to which to attend. If they spent time alone with it—really sat down and immersed themselves in it, not just reading it with a perfunctory, half-distracted false cheeriness like his mother had—Vernon was sure they’d grow to love it as much as he did.

One person who _did_ love the book was a kindly young lady by the name of Ms McGonagall. Ms McGonagall was the Grade Two teacher at Vernon’s school, and she was the opposite of Miss Striker in every way—patient, wise and sincerely interested in her young students. She had approached Vernon when he had been sitting alone at recess, silently reading to himself—a typical day for him, really—and offered to read _Topsy-turvy Land_ to him. And so they took turns reading aloud, the nice lady teacher helping him pronounce simple strings of text, smiling patiently and never once losing her temper. Miss McGonagall was the first adult, Vernon realised to his surprise that seemed interested in the actual story, and wasn’t simply reading along in order to placate him. In fact, she seemed every bit as besotted by the book as he was. 

Sometimes a little encouragement from someone is all a child needs, and Vernon—an imaginative boy who was, nonetheless, very much a child of routine—took _Topsy-turvy Land_ to bed with him every night for the next two years. His mother tried to break him of this embarrassing habit, but it was no use; it was like the book was welded to her son’s arms. Vernon’s nightly routine went thus: homework; mint slice washed down with a glass of chocolate milk; brush teeth; favourite story-book; fall asleep with favourite story-book fastened between crossed arms. From this routine came comfort. Comfort in the knowledge that somewhere, people did things differently and that was okay. Comfort in knowing that sometimes, people’s weirdness was what made them special and unique. Comfort in believing that somehow there would be a way to make grown-ups understand that there were more powerful currencies than money. And that even though daily life could be cruel, bland and agonising, there was still room for oddballs and eccentrics and dreamers. That despite everything that happened each day, there would always be a softer, gentler tomorrow. The world could still be a kind place. Life was good. 

*

Maintaining a sense of optimism was tough, even for a boy of Vernon’s agreeable disposition. If you weren’t having your rose-coloured bifocals smashed to bits by bullies, you were having them pulverised by parents or tut-tutted by teachers. In the end you saw the human social jungle less through a soft-focus rose tint than through jagged blood-smeared glass. A crime scene, an accident. Life as gladiatorial arena, the governing principle being survival of the fittest. Nature red in tooth and claw. 

Vernon remembered a recent Parent-Teacher evening in just such a colour scheme. The meeting had taken place in the school library, in which twenty-five red and pink butcher-paper hearts and paper streamers hung down from the ceiling to celebrate something called St. Valentine’s Day. Vernon wasn’t sure who this St. Valentine was, but he did know that every February 14 when the bloke’s birthday came round, his female classmates sent cards and chocolates to the other boys while he went home empty-handed. Which was all for the best, according to his mother—he didn’t want a silly thing like a schoolgirl crush distracting him from his studies now, did he? His father concurred, saying that chocolates would only be bad for his health (after all those toffees and sweets, Vernon had become quite fat). 

And so Vernon sat meekly between his parents while his teacher, Mr Pendlebury—an angular, severe man whose magnanimity could fit into a matchbox—recited Vernon’s flaws as though he was reading from a shopping list. Vernon was a daydreamer, he said. A rather chronic one. His homework was handed in on time but it was full of errors, and some of his letters were written backwards. And then, his teacher added gravely, there was also _this._ Vernon watched in horror as his teacher presented his parents with a recent work sample. 

It was sort of like an acrostic poem, each sentence beginning with ‘I’ followed by a possessive pronoun. _I am, I have, I own, I want,_ etc. Vernon’s poem had started out normally enough ( _I am a ten-year-old boy, I have a toy horse and soldiers, I own collectible football cards…_ ) right up ’til ‘I want.’ It was here that disaster struck:

_I want a mint slice jetpack._

Vernon stared at his parents’ mortified faces and immediately knew he’d done something wrong. That wasn’t the proper way of completing that sentence. 

“Oh dear,” his mother said, looking quite pale. She and her husband exchanged worried glances. 

Mr Dursley only looked concerned for a fraction of a second. Then, his face contorted with the more familiar rage. He grabbed his bewildered son by both shoulders and proceeded to give him a forceful shake. 

“What is the matter with you, boy!?” he yelled furiously, sending a shower of spittle into Vernon’s terrified face. “Chocolate goes with peanut butter! Cake goes with tea! _Mint slice has nothing whatsoever to do with jetpacks!! Nothing, do you hear!?_ Bloody hell, excuse my language, but that really is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!! Are you stupid, boy? Well, are you? Answer me!!”

Vernon shook his head and meekly shrank down into his chair. He wouldn’t cry, he couldn’t—tears would just result in more tears from his father’s belt when they got home. 

Mr Pendlebury gave Vernon a despondent look that Vernon mistook for sympathy and said, “I think you’ve just hit on a solution there, Mr Dursley—writing lines. Every day after school for a month, Vernon will be made to stay after class and write something like, ‘Chocolate goes with peanut butter. Cake goes with tea. Mint slice has NOTHING to do with jetpacks’ over and over until he pulls his head in a bit, and learns to quiet that irritating little voice inside his head that says, ‘daydream. Use your imagination. Waste time’.” Mr Pendlebury flashed Vernon’s parents a smug smile, looking rather pleased with himself. 

There was a brief silence.

Then Reginald, looking uncertain, replied, “I’m not sure that’s going to do anything at all, really.” 

Vernon’s heart did a hopeful somersault. 

“Best make it four months, maybe five to be on the safe side. After all, these things need time to sink in, don’t they?”

Vernon should have seen red. All those hearts with their pointed ends suspended just above his parents’ heads like spears, many less docile children would doubtless make a far more aggressive association. Vernon did not, however, for he was an innately conservative child who always believed adults knew best (in spite of so much evidence to the contrary). Yes, he was disappointed that his parents hadn’t shown more interest in his work, that they hadn’t even thought to ask whether a mint-slice jetpack was a jetpack made _of_ mint slices, or a jetpack that _fired_ mint slices (the former, _obviously_ ). But then, he supposed a mint slice jetpack _was_ a pretty silly invention anyway. His parents were right; he did waste far too much time dreaming up things that were completely impractical, things that would only ever exist in his mind. From that moment on, Vernon made a promise to himself: no matter how hard it was or how long it took, he would do things the conventional way. He would only concern himself with theories or methods that were practical and proven. He would be normal. 

 

* 

For a time, Vernon’s resolution to achieve a sense of normalcy went off without a hitch. This surprised everyone including Vernon himself, but when one has been writing lines every day for the past 74 days (two-and-a-half months of a five-month sentence), when one has been banned from Art classes and Story-time and taking home library books from the Fiction section, one tends to find the subversive forces of imagination and creativity grow a bit more subdued. Vernon’s creativity wasn’t entirely stifled, however—his mother did allow him to continue with his pottery-making and ceramics, which were more practical pursuits of which she approved. His father considered such activities hopelessly effeminate, but he didn’t disallow them so long as Vernon continued to tinker about with the tools in his workshop (fixing things in his father’s workshop was a new hobby at which the boy proved quite adept. Reginald was especially pleased when Vernon fixed a faulty drill which had been giving the senior Dursley grief for quite some time. For a while it even seemed as though the pair were approaching something that resembled father-son bonding). And so, for a time at least, life was pleasantly humdrum—Vernon went to school, came home, tinkered around in his father’s shed, did his homework and went to bed, with nary a magical occurrence or topsy-turvy happening in sight. Things were going well. 

Until the morning of his eleventh birthday. 

The morning started out normally enough. On the thirtieth of April, 1964, Vernon’s eyelids fluttered open to a familiar scene: his oak closet with a calendar of his favourite football team hanging from the handle; his much-loved bookshelf with its treasured wares perfectly alphabetised; and ladder-shafts of light and shadow streaming across his bedspread from the half-open Venetians. Vernon yawned and lazily stretched his arms above his head. He was just about to haul himself out of bed and commence yet another very bland yet very productive day, when a highly unusual sight immediately caused him to freeze. 

He had a visitor. 

The owl stood in the centre of his bed, illuminated by the sunlight in a way that appeared distinctly otherwordly. It was a beautiful owl, too, white as snow in face and body and wearing a cloak of caramel feathers on its back. It cocked its head as its twin opal eyes regarded Vernon inquisitively. 

Vernon swallowed hard. He knew this wasn’t good, but he also knew better than to let out a cry. The last thing he wanted to do was alert his parents to the fact that there was an owl in his room. Reginald and Margaret despised the unexpected. 

“Go on, shoo!” Vernon hissed at the owl. The owl cocked its head to the other side but remained where it was. There was an intelligence in those eyes; unlike the pheasant, Vernon sensed that this one was merely playing at being stupid as opposed to actually stupid. And there seemed to be a lot more going on below the surface than was apparent at first glance. 

“If you don’t go you’ll get me in trouble! Shoo, shoo!” Vernon said desperately, paddling both hands in the air in the hope the owl would get the hint and fly out the open window. How _had_ that window been opened, anyway? Vernon could have sworn he’d shut it before he went to bed…

Then, as if to confirm Vernon’s intuitions about its intelligence, the owl stooped down, picked up something from the bed with its beak, and flew straight at Vernon’s head, a determined fire in its dark eyes. Vernon let out a soft cry and raised his arms to cover his face, steeling himself for what he was certain would be a very painful attack. But the owl had settled down on his chest, and the boy felt a sharp paper corner connect with his sternum. Cautiously, he moved his hands away from his face, propped himself further up on his elbows and dared to open his eyes. 

The owl was holding a silver envelope. 

Heart pounding, Vernon extended a trembling hand and gingerly took the envelope from its beak. “Thanks,” he murmured faintly, still not quite trusting his eyes. The owl bowed courteously. 

He turned the envelope over to see who it was addressed to; surely, he thought, there had been some mistake. Surely this was someone’s clever trained pet delivering mail to a friend, a prank of sorts. Surely this letter couldn’t have been for him. But there, plain as day, written in what appeared to be golden ink curlicue script on the front of the envelope, was the letter’s intended recipient:

_Mr V. Dursley_  
_The second-storey bedroom_  
_9 Parker Place, Warwick Grove_  
_Surrey_

Vernon was troubled by the absence of a stamp. When he was sending letters to relatives his parents always drilled it into him: _the mailman doesn’t deliver anything without a stamp._ But then, maybe this only applied to conventional post. Vernon had never received anything by owl before, and he had a sinking feeling that few other people had, either. 

He drew a deep breath and turned over the envelope. 

The back of the envelope was closed with a wax seal bearing a coat of arms that Vernon didn’t recognise. It was divided into four squares, with a snake and raven on one side and a lion and badger on the other. A prominent capital H was embossed in the centre. 

“This can’t be good,” Vernon muttered to himself. 

He removed a parchment-like piece of paper and proceeded to read softly aloud to himself the message contained therein:

_HOGWARTS CO-EDUCATIONAL SCHOOL OF WITCHRAFT & WIZARDRY_

_Dear Mr Dursley,_

_I am pleased to extend to you an offer of enrolment at Hogwarts Co-educational School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (formerly Hogwarts Academy for Wizards). Enclosed is a list of all Required Items (books, robes, equipment, etc.), as well as a list of Forbidden Items (we ask that you pay special attention to the Forbidden Animals list. We do not need wild and illegal magical creatures terrorising our grounds. In particular, anyone who brings a Hydra-Headed Fire Lizard to campus will receive an automatic suspension). _

_With that little admonishment out of the way…welcome to Hogwarts! We do hope you’ll accept this offer of a place. Please send on owl confirming or rejecting this offer by no later than the 31st of August, 1964._

_We look forward to hearing back from you._

_Kind Regards,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration Teacher_

_P.S. We enclose a Sorting Orb. Please cup the orb carefully in both hands and press it lightly against your forehead to receive your House placement. Remember to send the orb back with your owl along with your reply to this letter._

The information left Vernon’s head reeling. A school of Witchcraft and Wizardry? And it wanted _him_ for a student? This news was terrifying. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? If so, it wasn’t a very funny one (but it was uncomfortably well-executed. To think, someone would bother to train an owl just to trick him…). But if it was real…the possibility made Vernon feel very nervous. Just think: another world full of goblins and beasties and nasties. And what on Earth was a Hydra-Headed Fire Lizard?

The idea may have been scary, but it was also strangely exhilarating. Was there really a world where he wouldn’t have to suppress whole parts of himself to gain others’ acceptance? His vague and dreamy mind, so often scoffed at and regarded as a liability…did he dare hope that there was someplace where it would be viewed as an asset? A strength to be developed instead of a flaw to be corrected? All those times he’d conversed with animals…the pheasant who’d spoken to him…the time when his father had been about to give him the strap and his bedroom door had closed itself and wouldn’t open…the time when he’d been running away from Blaine and a couple of his chronies and had actually disappeared, only to re-appear in his favourite hiding spot…perhaps these weren’t merely the misfirings of an over-active imagination. Maybe there were other children out there like him, children who knew of a magical world that existed beyond this ordinary one. Maybe Vernon could live among them, study with them, even befriend them…

The owl left his chest and nestled down on his nightstand, watching him curiously. When Vernon upended the envelope, two slips of paper and a small royal blue marble tumbled out. One slip was the list of Required Items (robes, cloaks, standard Class One wands, a cauldron, telescope and set of scales), while the other was the list of Forbidden Items (Horny Slagtoads, Celestial Spitfires, the aforementioned Hydra-Headed Fire Lizard, your own broom [??]). Neither made much sense to Vernon. Curious and a little disturbed, he turned his attention to the less-threatening marble. 

Its deep blue colour reminded him of Katie Culverwell’s pretty eyes. Surely _this_ couldn’t be the Sorting Orb mentioned in the letter? Vernon cupped it carefully in both hands, gazing at it doubtfully. It looked like an ordinary marble. Then, to Vernon’s amazement, it began to glow.

The little blue marble expanded until it was the size of a cricket ball, then stopped. A good thing, too, as Vernon’s heart had been nearly ready to burst through his ribcage; the glass ball had grown slowly, and for a horrifying moment, he’d seen in his mind’s eye an image of himself as a small bloody smear on the side of a glass globe that filled his entire bedroom. Swallowing hard, Vernon Dursley—ever the obedient child—gradually raised the orb to his forehead. 

The second the glass connected with his flesh, the cool ball grew warmer and emanated a gentle glow that bathed Vernon’s whole room in a strange bluish tint. It was like being at the aquarium and watching the waves of light reflect off the walls, or as if someone had placed a sheet of blue cellophane over his bedside lamp. And although the orb was burning hot, it didn’t feel painful; quite the opposite, in fact. Instead, it felt like…well, many things, none of them unpleasant: the reassuring touch of his mother’s hand on his fevered brow; snuggling down into his soft bed after his mother had covered it with fresh linen; running through the sprinklers with Katie on a hot summer afternoon; stroking the luxuriant fur of Leo, his pet angora cat, after he’d had a bad day at school. It felt, in other words, like comfort. 

Then, the soft voice of an adult female spoke:

_Hello, Vernon._

Vernon startled. He was surprised but unafraid. The voice was warm and maternal; the opposite of his mother’s abrupt, snappish tone. Somehow he knew this object, though enchanted, would do him no harm. And so he continued to hold the ball against his forehead with both hands and replied, “Hello.”

_Do not be afraid,_ said the voice inside the ball. _I am the Hogwarts Sorting Orb. I have been enchanted to speak with the voice of a Hogwarts teacher, as all Sorting Orbs have. I am borrowing the voice of Annabelle Littlefeather, and you may address me as such. My purpose is to help you determine the house in which you belong, should you decide to become a Hogwarts student. Do you understand me, Vernon?_

“Yes,” Vernon squeaked, surprised he’d even been capable of that single-syllable reply. 

_Wonderful,_ the orb replied warmly. _Bear in mind, Vernon, that you do not have to answer me with your voice. You may answer me with your thoughts if you’d prefer._

_**Yeah, I think that’d be better, actually,**_ Vernon said mentally. _**I mean, my parents really don’t like anything strange or mysterious, and they’d be pretty mad if they thought I was in here talking to myself, so…**_

_Very well,_ the orb said pleasantly. _Let’s proceed then, shall we?_

_Now, I would like to rule out one house right away. There’s an almost total absence of rationality, which would make you ill-suited to join the little logicians of Rowena Ravenclaw’s house…have you any affinity for Science, Maths or logic problems, Vernon? I don’t sense much interest in these areas…am I correct?_

_**Uh, no. I mean yeah, yeah you are. You’re correct. I’m not good at Maths or Science, and I don’t have much interest in them, either. I was always rubbish at those logic puzzles, too. So yes, I agree with what you’re saying.**_

_So you wouldn’t want to be in a house in which students valued logical thinking above all else, and a house in which the favoured pastimes are primarily mental—chess, puzzles, general and subject-specific quizzes?_

_**No, I definitely wouldn’t. That doesn’t sound like me at all.**_

_All right. Hmm. Do you consider yourself a brave person, Vernon?_

_**Ha ha! Not at all. No way!**_

_You do have some moral courage. A latent capacity to stand up for what you believe is right._

_**I’m sorry, I don’t understand…?**_

_It means that the ability to stand by your morals and stand up to wrongdoers is within you, should you choose to exercise it, the orb explained patiently. Unfortunately, you just haven’t exercised it much yet. Does that make sense?_

_**Yeah, I get what you’re saying…and yeah, I do have pretty strong morals…a very clear sense of right and wrong…**_

_There’s not too many grey areas in your sense of right and wrong, I don’t think…_

_**No, I suppose there isn’t. to me, right is right and wrong is wrong, end of story. People who want to tell me otherwise, they just want tot trick me. There are some wicked people out there…**_

_So pessimistic for one so young!_

_**No, not pessimistic, Ma’am. Just cautious.**_

_Hmmm. Interesting. Would you ever argue with an authority figure, Vernon? A teacher, a police officer, a minister—_

_**Oh, no. Never, Ma’am.**_

_Even if they were behaving in a way you knew to be wrong? What do you think you would do then?_

_**Well, Ma’am—uh, sorry, I mean, Miss Littlefeather—I would tell on them to another adult I trusted… a good adult would know what to do, they’d fix the situation much better than I would anyway.**_

_Do you like to take risks, Vernon?_

_**Not if I can avoid it.**_

The orb gave a warm laugh. _So, you wouldn’t openly argue with an adult and you dislike risk-taking. Clearly not a Gryffindor then! That leaves Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Hmm…_

_These sortings can sometimes be difficult, as Hufflepuffs and Slytherins actually have quite a few characteristics in common. They’re both resourceful and have an almost instinctive feel for the world of business; there’s always a dash of conservatism in their personalities that their more liberal-minded counterparts in Ravenclaw and Gryffindor generally lack; they’re both more interested in tradition and in methods that are tried and true than with breaking new ground, and make excellent historians; and they both take a deep pride in their family tree, practically worshipping their ancestors…hmm, I can see this is going to be very tricky…_

_You have many of these overlapping qualities yourself, Vernon. There’s a strong business-sense in you that’s typical of both innately-practical Hufflepuffs and shrewd-minded Slytherins. But also quite a vast, beautiful imagination, lush and colourful and expansive as a rainforest…this is more typical of Slytherins than Hufflepuffs…but then also a heavy dose of practicality and hands-on creativity, a gift for pottery-making and ceramics—far more Hufflepuff than Slytherin. Hmm…_

Vernon listened patiently to the orb’s musings. None of it made much sense to him, admittedly. He’d ascertained that ‘Hufflepuff’ and ‘Slytherin’ and so on were the names of the houses, but their precise significance eluded him. Nonetheless, he knew that something very important was taking place, something that could even alter the course of his future. He needed to listen carefully. 

_Choice above capability, Vernon,_ the orb suddenly declared solemnly. _Which would you prefer: a future in which you worked closely with other people—figure out their true psychological motivations to help them, heal them, or assist them in reaching their potential; wielding power or being the right-hand man for one who does; and generally using your empathy, cunning and psychological shrewdness to plumb the depths of human nature, in order to protect your fellow man from its basest attributes, such as those that give rise to dark magic? OR would you prefer a future in which you worked with animals or tools, producing comestibles or objects of beauty, or perhaps impressive structures that withstand the test of time; enjoying money for the comfortable family life it brings rather than for power or prestige; and generally using your creativity in practical ways that generate an income, in order to enjoy ‘the good life’ with your family and friends?_

Although Vernon didn’t understand all the words the orb had used, he did have an instinctive understanding of what it meant, and the answer was a no-brainer. 

_**The second one,**_ he replied adamantly. He knew he had no interest in power for its own sake, nor was he big on meddling in the minds and emotions of others. And he was quite afraid of the dark. 

_Very well,_ the orb replied sagely. _Your choice has been made. Good day to you, Vernon Dursley._ Then, with a final incandescent parting glow—which felt like his mother bestowing a kiss on his forehead before he went to sleep—the orb returned to its cool, dim state. 

Vernon transferred the orb to one hand and held it out in front of him in the middle of his palm, gawking at it in amazement. A single word was written on its centre in gold calligraphy script: 

_Hufflepuff._

Unbeknownst to Vernon, his generation would be the last to be sorted individually, by orb. Three years later, in 1967, house designation would be ceremonial, and Hogwarts students would be sorted collectively by hat. 

“VER- _NON!_ ” came his father’s loud bellow from downstairs. “Come down so we can eat your birthday cake, lad! It’s been sitting out here on the table for quite some time, and it’s getting cold…”

“Coming Dad!” Vernon hollered back. He glanced at his nightstand and noticed the owl had absconded. He wasn’t worried, though; somehow, he had a sense it would return when the time was right. The feeling of urgency he’d experienced earlier when he’d been holding the orb had been replaced by a pleasant complacency. No need to rush. Things would get better eventually. 

He leaned over the edge of his bed and reached an exploratory hand under in search of his treasure chest, which was in actual fact just an ordinary little wooden box that had been spray-painted gold and covered in macaroni. It was into this chest that Vernon placed the lists and the orb (now back to its original marble-size), as well as the invitation letter (carefully folded back into its silver container). Finally, because his Mum had a tendency to snoop, he shuffled several items on top of the enchanted ones to hide them from sight (a piece of fool’s gold, collector’s coins and an unsent love-letter to Katie). He then bounded eagerly downstairs. He would have time to make a decision later, he reasoned. It was still some months away yet. Besides, Vernon was still at an age where everyday magic like birthdays were indistinguishable from the other sort; children under twelve don’t make clear distinctions between the two. And so off he merrily bounded, secure in the knowledge that a fun-filled birthday and a magic-filled future awaited him. 

*

Some months passed. Vernon finished his five months of line-writing that he’d begun in February. He now knew that as mouse was to cheese, cake was to tea; carrots were associated with rabbits and good eyesight; apples were for teachers and kept doctors away if eaten once daily. Many hands made light work and must never be kept idle, lest they become the Devil’s playthings. Vernon had learned, too, that mint slice had nothing to do with jetpacks; that inflatable castles could not be constructed from marshmallows, nor could they serve as stables for homeless unicorns (nor did said horned equine 1) exist and 2) poo chocolate sauce). To quite his imagination further still, Vernon spent many hours camped in front of the television. The results were incremental but unmistakable: in place of imagination he developed a contented mental inertia. In place of creativity, cliché. 

He liked clichés rather a lot, actually. They were a kind of mental and verbal security blanket, to be whipped out whenever the owner had exhausted his capacity for independent thought. They were reassuring, weren’t they. Easy. And best of all, since they were accepted as ‘common sense’, they didn’t make anyone angry with him. 

Actually, Vernon’s relationship with his parents appeared to be growing stronger by the day. His mother simply adored the new garden gnomes he’d painted for her, while his father was just chuffed he wasn’t daydreaming in class anymore and was actually proving to be of some use around the workshop. For a time, things seemed to be going splendidly. 

Then, two weeks before the 31st of August, an unusual happening disturbed the Dursley’s tranquil and uneventful abode. 

They were all seated around the breakfast table—Vernon’s parents, Simon, his baby sister Margery in her high-chair—eating a morning meal of crumpets, scrambled eggs and bacon, when all of a sudden, through the mail-slot in the door behind his father, Vernon noticed something shiny and silver and rectangular tumble down onto the linoleum. 

Arising from his seat and softly murmuring “it’s okay, kitty” under the pretence of going over to unlatch the cat flap, Vernon quietly made his way across the kitchen and over to the back door. His father and brother were busy greedily stuffing their faces, and his mother was trying to feed a reluctant Margie her porridge, so he was able to go about his mission undetected. 

Vernon tucked the envelope in the back waistband of his pyjama pants, quickly covering it with his nightshirt. He then abruptly announced, “Off to the loo, think I’ve got the runs!” and hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard his father complain through a mouthful of eggs, “Well, serves you right, eating all that dark chocolate before bed…”

Wanting to make the fib believable, Vernon locked himself in the loo and audibly groaned a few times so his parents could hear. He then pulled down the lid, sat himself down, opened the envelope and had a read:

_Dear Mr Dursley,_  
We wish to advise you that there are only two weeks remaining before your offer of a place at Hogwarts will be rescinded. Please send an owl with your reply (and your Sorting Orb) IMMEDIATELY if you wish to secure a place with us. If not, simply do nothing, and this is the last time you will ever hear from us. We do hope to see you in the near future, but understand if you choose otherwise. Best wishes for the future either way, and may you live a grand and non-mediocre life in whatever you decide to do.  
Kind Regards,  
Albus Dumbledore.  
Deputy Headmaster  & Transfiguration Teacher  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry

Vernon turned over the envelope. Sure enough, there it was, similar to last time: 

_Mr V Dursley_  
The kitchen table, medium chair with the wonky leg  
9 Parker Place, Warwick Grove  
Surrey 

As Vernon slowly lowered the letter to his lap, he didn’t feel the intense mixture of fear and jubilation he’d felt the first time around. Because now, in his mind’s eye, he didn’t see himself surrounded by magical friends and mythical creatures in a far-off land where he was loved and respected. Instead, this is what he saw:

He imagined himself surrounded by bullies exactly like Blaine Manser, only with magical powers. They would laugh at his inability to perform even the most simple of spells, and he would be called a loser and a git. The other kids would turn him into a slug or cow pie for sport, or even worse—transform his underwear into pine needles while he was still wearing it, for example. Maybe they’d attempt to drown or scald him. Maybe they’d spit a lurgy on him and it would burn like sulphuric acid. 

He’d return home from Hogwarts and his parents would reject him. After all, they hated anything unusual or weird. How would they react when they discovered their second son was now a practising wizard? Vernon knew the answer to that question: they would disown him completely. And right when he was starting to suspect they really did love him after all. They did, as any parents do, but Reginald and Margaret’s love was the conditional kind, circumscribed by numerous clauses and caveats. Vernon knew with a heavy heart that he had to be careful; a foot wrong and he’d tumble through a loophole. 

After all the progress he’d made over the past few months, Vernon was going to throw it all away—his newfound productivity, his drill-fixing, his bond with his parents—all of it, gone. And for what? A chance to kiss toads and turn them into princesses or whatever? 

Vernon knew he had a choice: he could either go to Hogwarts and try to fit in with the magical folk while simultaneously being the normal child his parents preferred, essentially living in two worlds while belonging in neither; OR he could stay in the safe, stable ordinary one, being a dull and obedient child who attained good marks, never fantasised excessively and always, always did what was expected of him. 

The path to parental love and societal acceptance was obvious. Vernon tore the reminder letter into hundreds of tiny fish-food pieces, flushed it down the toilet, then returned downstairs to finish his breakfast.

 

*

It was with a heavy heart that Minerva McGonagall—sleek and nimble in her feline form—made her way to the Dursley abode on the evening of August 31st, 1964. 

They had warned her about this, Minerva told herself bitterly. Her supervisors at Hogwarts who monitored her progress as a young practice teacher, they told her that it would happen eventually. That one day, when she was posing as a teacher in the Muggle world, one of the Muggle children she identified as having magical potential would reject their offer letter and sadly repudiate their latent gifts. She knew it would happen one day. But she never expected that it would be this soon. 

Minerva padded down the dark strip of grass that ran alongside the footpath, being sure to steer clear of the path itself. The streetlights cast large luminous spheres onto the concrete, and she didn’t wish to be seen by another cat or—heaven forbid—a stray dog. As she walked she admired the lights above her, evidence of Muggles’ ingenuity. _It might not be so bad,_ she told herself determinedly, in her best mental game-face. _Muggles have created some extraordinary things, after all. The boy could still go on to achieve something outstanding._ She really wanted to believe this. _And he still has the Lists of Required and Forbidden Items in that chest beneath his bed—and the orb, and the original offer letter! There’s hope for him yet. He could enrol next year. There’s always next year, isn’t there, always next year…_

But in her heart of hearts, Minerva knew she had to face up to the disappointing truth: Vernon Dursley would not be accompanying her to Hogwarts next year. Like so many would-be witches and wizards before him—particularly potential Hufflepuffs—Vernon had chosen to reject his innate magic.

And so a dispirited Minerva padded silently down Parker Place, wearing a small vial of green liquid in a chain around her neck. The liquid was a forgetfulness potion that she would administer to the young Dursley’s sleeping eyelids. He would forget that there was ever a Minerva McGonagall who taught at Smeltings, who used to read a book called _Topsy-turvy Land_ aloud to him at recess. He would forget the owl, the orb, the offer letter. He would forget his fantasies about magical friends and foes, about turning broccoli into chocolate pudding, about kissing toads to turn them into princesses. He would forget Hogwarts even existed. 

It was lucky she wasn’t in human form, Minerva thought sadly. And so, with no need of a stiff upper lip, she dutifully carried out her mission. Her green cat eyes wept no tears.

*

Over the years Vernon forgot many other things as well, unassisted by any potion. No, the potion Minerva McGonagall administered to him on that fateful evening was only designed to make him forget anything related to Hogwarts. His magical abilities, his creativity, his boundless imaginative capabilities—Vernon forgot these things all on his own. 

He forgot, for example, his ability to talk to animals, so that when a horse tried to engage him in conversation about how bloody tedious all the ‘why the long face?’ jokes were, he immediately turned away and pretended he’d heard nothing more interesting than ‘neigh.’ He forgot his fantastical adventures in the clouds, preferring to keep both feet planted on good old predictable terra firma. If you mentioned a trifle-breathing dragon or an equine companion called Sir Gallophad, he’d look at you as if you’d lost your marbles and proceed to back slowly away. Pheasants were for eating, not talking to, and it was preposterous to think one could strap a mint slice to one’s back and use it to fly anywhere. He gave up pottery and ceramics—nice enough hobbies, but they didn’t pay the bills now, did they. Art was for benefits scroungers; starving artists were worthless to the economy. He forgot all about _Topsy-turvy Land_ and its anarchic subversion of the natural order; it wound up in a second-hand bookstore somewhere, to be discovered by a bright-eyed child who hadn’t yet forgotten. 

Sometime in his teenage years Vernon forgot his soft boyishness, too, but not to worry; the hard edges that supplanted it would see him make rapid progress in the business world. It was around this time that he forgot Katie Culverwell—sweet, dreamy Katie Culverwell, who had encouraged his imagination and accepted him for who he was—and began seeing a young lady called Petunia Evans (who encouraged his ambition and thought his raw materials adequate to build the type of man she wanted). His own dreaminess and sweetness long forgotten, Vernon discovered within himself a latent capacity for irritability, especially for those no-good kids and their lack of respect for authority—which was understandable, really, what with adults being too cowardly and politically correct to remedy such behaviour with a few strokes of the cane. 

Yes, Vernon Dursley forgot a great many things from his youth. 

But occasionally he experienced a sense of déjà vu. 

One day when he was cleaning out the garage—an annual purge of all the useless bits of sentimental bric-a-brac—Vernon discovered his boyhood treasure chest. And there they were, preserved in their wooden time capsule: the Lists, the orb and the invitation letter. The orb was covered in a furry veil of dust and the Lists and letter were yellowed with age, but their tangibility was undeniable—ergo, they existed. With a hand on either side of the chest, Vernon slowly raised it to his face, frowning in consternation at the enchanted objects. He didn’t know what they were, but they looked familiar to him somehow. Vernon couldn’t help but think he’d seen these items somewhere before…Then, a flicker of comprehension crossed his face. 

“Lousy bloody nephew,” he mumbled gruffly under his breath. “Always bringing home weird crap…” He gazed down at his once-treasured items and laughed scornfully. “Well, off to the tip with you, then!”

One thing Vernon did not forget, however, was his interest in tools, and as the president of Grunnings—a drill-making company—nice, normal, perfectly ordinary Vernon Dursley finally had his parents’ approval. Of course, they weren’t quite as proud of him as they were of Simon (who became a Tory politician) or Margery (who married one), but it was solid, respectable employment. It was a stable job, predictable. It was normal. 

And despite his advancing age (which was advancing very bloody quickly with that nuisance of a nephew of his around), Vernon Dursley still remembered certain rituals. For instance, every evening before he retired to bed, he’d settle down in his easy-chair and rest a cup of tea and a square of mint slice on the small side-table, and fall asleep with his copy of _The Daily Mail_ or _The Times_ over his face (the morning rush did not usually permit a news fix over breakfast). He would fall asleep and snore loudly, inhaling the day’s events—pleasant ones only, of course. This evening ritual gave him great comfort. Comfort in the knowledge that somewhere out there, wrongdoers were being punished by the country’s gallant boys in blue. Comfort in knowing that sometimes, children were raised by two opposite-sex parents in nuclear families that were perfectly free from divorce or strife, and that was right. That was the natural order of things. Comfort in believing that he was correct to put his faith in his country’s most sacred institutions (the Monarchy and the Pound). Even though people could be perverse and emotional and unfathomable, there were still institutions that were not, and they’d stood the test of time. And they always would. After all, why fix something when it isn’t broken? No good in throwing the baby out with the bathwater, is there? Because in spite of all the anarchy and craziness—all the impudent youths and their too-clever mouths, all those imaginations running wild with no cane to beat them back into submission—the world could still be a nice, normal sort of a place, couldn’t it. Vernon’s sleeping face broke into a wide, complacent smile. Life was good.


End file.
